William Freedman came across my radar by way of pinging a mailing list I’d organized as a means to help authors I know set up blog tours. He was looking for people to host him, and, well, since this is exactly what Boosting the Signal is all about, I told him to send me a piece!

Additional note–main post is behind the fold, for NSFW language.

Whither goest thou, thou hatful o’ cock cheese? Turn thine ear to me afore I squeeze a wet shit in it!

I, Lugh, called the Indomitable, didst ally with the band of heroes styled The Crusaders. For many a year I joined their battle against all things malevolent, and yet I suffered betrayal at their hands. And wherefore? Ach, ’twas for nothing o’ moment. A mortal scribe, albeit one who practices the art late known as “live television news,” didst ask me how I felt ‘pon our freshly won victory o’er the forces o’ the nefarious Institute. I did reply in all candor words to the effect, “‘Tisa pleasure akin to having one’s scrotum nibbled by all fifty o’ Poseidon’s Nereid nymphs.”

Soft, ye braying pack-ass. Shut thy tit-suckinghole ere mine adze joins it to thine unwiped shitcrack! ‘Tis not the worst o’ the matter.

My discomfiture was such that I was reduced to a lapdog’s watch, guarding what passes in this benighted time and place as the agora and public square: The Chesterfield Mall in and of the City of Saint Louis. The Fates had rendered me thoroughly fucked, sorely and roughly penetrated from mine anus even unto mine windpipe. Destiny’s own foreskin didst tickle my tonsils from behind.

And lo, e’en that was not capricious torment enow for me.

I resolved to ne’er speak another unguarded word and didst keep my oath for many months, as I kept myself to myself in my cavernous prison. And yet battle did find me e’en in my exile. The Institute sought a prize hidden in the Chesterfield Mall and it fell to me and my new compatriots to defend the treasure. Stood I shoulder to shoulder with heroes who deserved far greater notice than “live television news” would begrudge them. There was Mucus-Man, and Supermodel, and Count Karma, and the Blur, and their leader and my closest friend amongst all mortals, the warrior known as Clam.

In more gracious ages, skalds composed epics around such deeds to ring through palaces and mead halls. Alas, upon the morrow mine own company were relieved of our watch and banished from the profession of arms.

O’er many a jar of ale that eventide, howsoever, we declared ourselves banded together as a rogue force of errant heroes, to dare what fortune might present us. Should we meet with victory, we shall once again claim our rightful place among The Crusaders. Yet should battle’s tide turn against us, we shall die in ignominy like a pile of simpering, flaccid-skootched, misbegotten sons of a whore, whose gouches ne’er ceaseto itch ‘neath cods more wide than long.

And therein lies our tale.

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